I’m hardly exaggerating when I say I could look at his drawing all day without it dying out on me – and there are some intriguing reasons for this. First, I must point out whether he intended to or not, Andrew Atwood has managed to secure prime real estate on the gallery wall by hanging his wide, nearly 6 foot horizontal and 2 foot vertical drawing on the far North wall, on-axis with the entrance of the gallery. This allows for a series of visual events to unfold before the viewer's’ eyes. From standing at the gallery entrance, one might identify its compelling white and gray shape as a sort of two-dimensional blob, blending with its background. However, as the viewer moves closer to the drawing, about half the length of the gallery, something curious happens. The homogeneous, White-ish, Gray-ish figure comes into focus as beautifully shaded mountainous forms and deep sinking valleys. This sudden reading of depth creates an allure that begs the viewer for further intimacy. To move within inches of the drawing is to reveal it’s secrets. When up close, one realizes the dabbled trails of tiny dots are in fact specific indentations in the surface of the canvas, delicately flirting with thick, raised layers of what seems to be paint. When the physical borders between the white and gray shade values become visible, they start to read as individual flat shapes, rather than rolling hills. One may also notice in certain moments the trails of indented punctures become raised bumps as they venture across the raised edges. This further reinforces the flatness of the shapes by calling out their edges with a subtle transformation. Because each of these visual experiences are directly tied to where the viewer is located in relation to the drawing, it is impossible to settle on one specific reading for very long. The drawing begs the audience to continue questioning its content, as if it were beautifully displaying its desire to be kept alive.